Hanging On

Another two days and it will all be over. Some call it a dream fulfilled. I had called it so two years back at around the same time when I got the letter for admission into this well known institute of management in Western India. But I didn’t have the time to revel in the glory of being the only other person from my university to clear the admission process that year. I, along with my classmates from the same department was lodged in a Godforsaken research farm somewhere close to Bardhamaan in West Bengal. And having secured the admission meant that I had to work doubly hard on my thesis so that I would be able to complete it in time before leaving for here.
The first day in class here was not exactly what dreams are made of. Though, I got a seat somewhere in the back (you are supposed to sit according to your roll numbers in the first year), I could not in any way dream of doing any thing other than listening to the teacher, forget passing chits and talking. The classrooms are round in shape and my row would be in the direct line of sight of the teacher.
First day, second period (lecture if you prefer). The course was something called MAC. An acronym (probably) for Managerial Analysis and Communication. There were lots of cases from different sources and each lecture (they call it session here) would consist of discussing the case among the classmates, with the teacher assuming the role of a facilitator. Till this day, however, I don’t know what does a facilitator facilitate? It is probably, a fish market situation by adding a new dimension to the case discussions and revel in the mayhem which follows, as students pounce on the new point and start “participating” in the discussions again. The case discussions were to be initiated by someone, the teacher would select at random and I happened to be that someone that day. Needless to say, not knowing the ways and having being dumb enough, not to have consulted the seniors regarding the discussions I was in direct line of fire of the teacher. The next lecture began with a surprise quiz, based on the readings for that lecture, which I had taken pains to go through. I won’t say that I aced the quiz but surely gave a performance which was better than many others’. That was how the first day in class in was.
As we moved on, slogs and late night binges became the order of the day. And all we hoped for, was the end of it all. Field Work, two traineeship segments all passed by in a jiffy, cribbing, complaining; even crying (I did lose control over my emotions one day when I had to type three assignments all scheduled to be submitted the next day).
The end of it all was all were waiting for, with baited breath, and frankly speaking, it did not seem really far off. Days seemed to turn into weeks and weeks into months in almost no time. Therefore as we began the classes for the fifth and the final term, most of us were not really surprised at the pace at which it all went by. Then came the day which we were desperately waiting for. The 22nd of March 2010. The last day in class. The last day, for many as full time students. The last day of the “class participation”, which we have been so intent on doing. The last day of the sutta break between the lectures. The last day of passing chits. The last day of chatting with the guy on the next seat. But for me, that last day held much more importance. I had two presentations scheduled for the day and one of them was in a course offered by the professor who had offered MAC in the first term. And that incidentally was supposed to be my last presentation here in this institute. Honestly speaking, I was having butterflies in my stomach. He was the first person, whose ire I was at the receiving end of, here, and I certainly did not want him to be last person too. Thankfully it all went off peacefully and he, in fact seemed happy at my defence of one of his questions. Post lunch, I had a lecture at 3:40 for which I woke up at 4:10. Still, I gave it a chance and call it providence or call it the magic of the last moment, the teacher marked me present. I normally do not question miracles, and it wasn’t much different this time around, either. And thus came that moment which almost all of us had been desperately waiting for, since the time we were into the second week of the programme. The end of it all. “No more ppts, no more assignments”, says a G talk status message somewhere. Which probably reflects the sentiments of the whole batch.
Here and there you can come across desperate attempts to hang on to it all. Sitting outside the mess for tea. Gathering at the Sutta wala’s place. All attempts to take back more and more memories, as all of begin a new journey from here. Because, as one of my seniors always said, “In the end you always remember the beginning”.